


my heart is a garden

by protectoroffaeries



Series: a flower for your time [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Demigods, Flowers, Goddesses, Gods, Implied/Referenced Sex, Language of Flowers, M/M, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 02:44:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10548718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/protectoroffaeries/pseuds/protectoroffaeries
Summary: John can't control the flowers.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I had like a fever dream of demigod!Alex and minor god!John. I dunno, that's just what this is I guess? I really like John Laurens + flowers for some reason.
> 
> I may write more in this 'verse, I kinda like it... 
> 
> (Also I'm not like a flower expert so I'm sorry if I mixed something up.)

The bed is full of flowers, most of which are in shades of orange and pink. The stems wind up around Alexander’s naked form as if their seeds were planted in the mattress, perfectly planted so that they cover every inch of free space that isn't occupied by Alexander's loose limbs. They grow straight through the pillow and between stands of his hair, which is fanned out above his head like a dark halo.  

Alexander looks more like a maiden playing in the fields than a man, a warrior, a son of Zeus, but from the easy smile on his lips, he does not seem to mind.

“Why these?” he asks, fingering the stem of an orange rose that bloomed beside his head. Alexander doesn't speak the language of flowers. Why would he? There are many important things for young men to learn; and John has no doubt that Alexander's tutors would deem anything to do with flowers woman's frivolous fancy.

“Orange roses symbolize desire,” John answers. He waves a hand and some of the flowers disappear. Just enough so that he can lay on his side next to Alexander. He slides back into bed, and Alexander smiles radiantly at him.

“So do all these flowers reflect your lusty appetites?” teases Alexander. He plucks a white coriander flower from his hair. “What's this one?”

John smiles. “That one is lust.”

Alexander, of course, laughs like it's the most brilliant joke in the world. “So it really is a garden of your base desires?”

“That is why you're in the center of it,” John says. Alexander smacks him on the arm, but John barely feels it. There are few mortals with the strength to truly make his skin sting with a hit, and though Alexander has countless great and admirable talents and abilities, his physical strength is not one of them. Not that John thinks Alexander would try to hurt him if he could.

“I suppose I should've figured,” Alexander says, “as they did grow while we were having sex.”

John can't quite help it, when the flowers grow. They tend to spring up when he has little control, when he cannot focus, when he is ruled by emotion over reason. They reflect his heart; that is what his mother says. She hears the whispers of the flowers, as does her mother before her. Perhaps if he were not powerful, there would be those who would dare mock him for inheriting a feminine gift. But John is also his father's son, and he  _ can  _ kill with a mere look.

Besides, John loves the flowers. He's quite fond of all Nature’s fruits, from her smallest weeds to her tallest trees. He thinks Alexander looks breathtaking with flowers his hair, with their petals brushing against his skin.

John plucks a pink calla lily from where it rests against Alexander's hip. “Admiration,” he says, “beauty.” Alexander rolls his eyes, ever so scornful at the notion of being beautiful. There are a number of blossoms around him that scream  _ beauty, _ but Alexander is stubborn. He will not see what he does not believe.

“I don't think I've seen these ones before,” Alexander comments idly, motioning to a group of purplish-white flowers lounging above his brow. John recognizes heliotrope immediately, wonders when  _ that  _ happened. “Well? Aren't you going to tell me what they mean?”

“They mean that I love you,” John murmurs. “Forever.”

“John,” Alexander says, the smile sliding off his face. He sits up, leaving a hole among the flowers. “Don't.”

“I'm sorry.” A lie.

“As am I.” A truth.

John raises a hand, and the flowers begin to disappear, leaving little holes in the sheets as the only evidence that they were ever there. The heliotrope goes last.

“Do you want to fuck again, before you have to go?” Alexander asks, crudely snapping the silence between them. He almost sounds like he's accusing John of something, like it's John's fault they can't be true lovers.

“There's no time,” John says, even though there's plenty. Even though his father would hardly mind if he were a minute or two late on account of being wrapped up in Alexander.

John rises from the bed, and Alexander makes no move to stop him. He pulls on his clothes, and Alexander makes no move to stop him. He steps out the door without a goodbye, and Alexander makes no move to stop him.


End file.
